


dandelion

by ixcarus



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Depictions of Violence, Chronic Illness, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I think? h, Introspection, M/M, Past Character Death, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Virtual Reality, postgame, postgame vr au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:48:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29963205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ixcarus/pseuds/ixcarus
Summary: He’s beautiful,Kokichi thinks fervently.So, so beautiful.What would Shuichi be doing on this Sunday morning if Kokichi weren’t there?…Probably sleeping in,he decides, taking a sip of his hot chocolate. It burns his tongue.(Probably happier,some twisted part of him whispers. He stares at the cup in his hands and can’t find it in himself to disagree.)__Or: Kokichi versus pancakes, the hydraulic press, and the art of running away.
Relationships: Oma Kokichi/Saihara Shuichi
Comments: 8
Kudos: 128





	dandelion

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!! Happy saiou day everyone!! ummmmm if u know me from arisama, arisama,,, no u dont,,,, hahahah I mean, I promise im working on the next chapter! soon. I actually wrote this in between writing chpt 3 and 4 of arisama, and I thought saiou day would be the perfect time to post this!! So i swear im working. hhehge. ... 
> 
> uwahhhh this was beta'ed by my really good friend [serenescribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenescribe/pseuds/serenescribe) who also has a great dr fic going on here if u want some more intriguing "postgame" content,, heheh ([read it here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29634726/chapters/72856317)) and [Seluniii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweezey) ... thanks so much for your help as always guys;;; 
> 
> I really wish I could offer more than a short one-shot on this concept, but alas... if I really let myself explore the depths of Kokichi + Shuichi's relationship in a post-game vr setting it'd be too much for me to handle on top of all my other projects TT 
> 
> Even so, I hope that this little one-shot will still be a fulfilling read! I tried to keep this under 1.5/2k to flex my ability to write shorter fics but uhhh (stares at word count) obviously that didn't work out. Ohhhh well! DSFLKSDJ:FDSK Hope you guys enjoy the extra content :) !! And ty for reading!

It’s in the middle of breakfast that Kokichi Ouma considers running.

They’re making pancakes after a leisurely morning of sleeping in. Wearing nothing but one of Shuichi’s old shirts and his ostentatiously patterned boxers, Kokichi sits crossed legged on a chair while stirring a cup of hot chocolate. Truly, he thinks, there’s no way to get more domestic than _this:_ the two of them in the kitchen, the sweet fragrance of sugar in the air, Shuichi humming a little tune while Kokichi waits by the table.

He tilts his head and silently watches his boyfriend. Shuichi Saihara is _not_ a morning person, and Kokichi can tell by the way his hair sticks up at odd angles, the way he yawns every other minute, rubbing at his eyes and unknowingly getting flour all over his face. Kokichi swallows the urge to go and wipe it off for him, eyes sweeping lower; Shuichi’s ratty t-shirt hangs loosely on his shoulders, showing a bit of collarbone. The fabric is so thin and faded that he’s not sure what the original color is supposed to be.

 _He’s beautiful,_ Kokichi thinks fervently. _So, so beautiful._

What would Shuichi be doing on this Sunday morning if Kokichi weren’t there?

 _…Probably sleeping in,_ he decides, taking a sip of his hot chocolate. It burns his tongue.

 _(Probably happier,_ some twisted part of him whispers. He stares at the cup in his hands and can’t find it in himself to disagree.)

“Is everything okay?” Shuichi asks, momentary pausing in his pancake making endeavor. Kokichi frowns at the worried look on his face: eyebrows turned down, eyes sleepy, but still sharp. Analyzing.

Kokichi rolls his eyes in response, but his tongue feels like sandpaper as he puts on a sunny smile. “It’s fine! Saihara-chan’s just taking too long with the pancakes. I’m _hungryyy!”_ he says cheerily — or, well, as cheerily as he can manage. And really, there should be no difference between the two, because if there’s one thing the killing game has gifted him with, it’s his uncanny ability to lie.

Shuichi’s lips turn slightly downwards anyways, a knowing look in his eyes. He silently makes his way towards Kokichi and wraps him up in his arms, careful not to squeeze too tightly against his chest. Kokichi crinkles his nose at the way the flour is now on _his_ clothes, while Shuichi leans down and kisses him on the top of his head.

“I could just bring the food back to bed if you wanna rest more,” Shuichi says, so, _so_ sweet.

Kokichi cranes his neck up to see Shuichi’s open gaze, the soft smile on his face, the light blush on his cheeks.

And he thinks—

_There’s no way I’m allowed to have this._

“Carry me,” he says instead, wrapping his arms around Shuichi’s waist and breathing in faint cinnamon. Pretends his arms aren’t shaking as he’s gently carried back to their bedroom.

In the end, Shuichi ends up finishing up the pancakes by himself and bringing them to their room like he suggested. He can tell Shuichi thinks it’s too sweet by the way he swallows down his bites with bitter coffee, grimacing as he chews on the chocolate chips Kokichi insisted on adding earlier.

“Thank you for the meal,” Shuichi says anyways, kindly taking away the plates once they’re done. They both pretend Kokichi’s plate isn’t only half-eaten, that he hasn’t been struggling to keep his grip on the damn _fork_ steady the entire time.

He waits in bed until Shuichi returns, with hands that are warm from having washed the dishes. And the utensils. And the mixing bowls, cups, and measuring spoons.

“Saihara-chan’s doing a looot of work around the house these days, hmm?” Kokichi sighs as Shuichi settles in bed next to him, lying down even though he probably won’t be sleeping. Kokichi’s entire body aches with the effort of readjusting himself, but he moves so that his back is to Shuichi’s chest. “You’re making me look like a bad boyfriend, y’know. You gotta leave some chores for me too!”

Shuichi lets out a light laugh at that, putting an arm over him. Distantly, Kokichi wonders if he can feel his heartbeat this way. _Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum,_ it goes, like some poorly timed joke. _Ba-dum-tss._

“It’s fine, Ouma-kun. I don’t mind doing a bit of work when you’re feeling down.”

Kokichi trembles at the way Shuichi’s breath caresses his ear.

 _You’ve gotten a lot better at lying, Saihara-chan,_ he notes silently.

And they lie there for the rest of the morning, until Kokichi feels the lull of sleep calling to him once more.

It’s nice. It’s comforting. It’s home.

( _It’s manipulative._

_It’s greedy._

_It’s_ his _—_

 _but exactly what he’s done to deserve something like this, he still doesn’t know._ )

Kokichi bites his lips until he tastes blood, and wonders how long he’ll have this simple happiness before it inevitably crumbles away.

* * *

His hair is white now.

Sometimes, it still surprises him. He’ll catch a reflection of himself on a passing mirror, the turned-off television in their living room, or the windows in the kitchen and expect to see— smarmy, _conniving_ Kokichi, with black strands tipped in purple, a manic smile, the press coming down slowly, _slowly, it hurts to breathe—_

But that Kokichi died right there in that Exisal room.

That Kokichi died, flattened into pulp and blood and _nothing_ , and that really should’ve been it. But then it wasn’t.

Instead, a new version of himself came out, this time with a scarred body and white hair and a tremor in the very hands that killed four people in their selfish wake. A new version, like some sort of snake that sheds its skin, bright and shiny and just as poisonous as before.

It makes him wonder if, other than all the physical differences, getting crushed by a hydraulic press really changed anything. If such a lonely, painful end could ever be enough to repay the price for all his sins. With his blood dripping pink and his guts splattered against the pristine walls of the hanger room, did he manage to become a good person?

He thinks of Shuichi, and dreams.

Shuichi, who wasn’t there when Kokichi woke up writhing in pain, hooked up to a thousand monitors keeping him alive ( _he never asked to be alive_ ) — but still kindly held him as he learned to walk again _,_ a constant _sorry, sorry_ on his lips. _Sorry I wasn’t there earlier,_ he always whispered, _sorry I couldn’t save you._

(And he had expected himself to be angry at the detective — he certainly was in the game, a burning vitriol that soured his every interaction with Shuichi afterwards. _How dare you,_ he had thought, drawing a line between Gonta and Miu’s pictures on his whiteboard, and trying not to stare at the image of the detective right above. _How dare you hurt me like that._

Yet in that hospital room, when Shuichi had first visited him, all Kokichi felt was a strange sense of relief.

 _I’m sorry,_ Shiuchi had said then too, hesitantly sitting by his gurney. _I know it’s selfish, but… could you ever find it in yourself to forgive me?_

Then he had stared at Shuichi’s quivering lips: at the person who killed him, saved him, once hated him, and now maybe _liked_ him, and thought—

 _Ah… but I’ve already forgiven you, Shuichi._ )

Besides, if anyone deserved to be called selfish it would be Kokichi.

Villains like him didn’t deserve a redemption arc, or forgiveness, or a happy ending. No, villains like him were supposed to _die_ at the end of the story, were supposed to suffer in hell, were supposed to disappear forever after one last manic stand against the protagonist.

Villains like him deserved to _bleed_ — and this, at the very least, he’s managed to do, his own body breaking at the seams, crackling with phantom poison and pain. Team Danganronpa had offered a multitude of excuses: _We couldn’t pull you out in time,_ they said with dull faces, _We didn’t know what was happening until it was too late,_ but all Kokichi had heard then was, _At the very least, it’s what you deserve._

Now he has days where his mind is convinced that he’s still there, trapped underneath the press with his entire body breaking over and over and over again. And there’s nothing he can do, really, but lie in pain, the lights off and a buzzing behind his eyes, immobile in bed and trying so hard to _breathe._ Even when things are more normal there’s a constant ache in his veins, a burn that never leaves, a chronic chill that eats him up from the inside.

Even so, he’ll always be the season’s antagonist. Never the victim.

Villains like him weren’t supposed to get happy endings either — but there he was, somehow in a relationship with Shuichi, somehow being _loved_ despite the blood on his hands. It never felt real, and yet it felt all too tangible at the same time. One day, he could see it all unravelling into a horrible mess; all he had to do was pull at the strings and wait for it to fall apart.

At first, Kokichi had let Shuichi care for him because he couldn’t find it in himself to say no. Besides, it probably made Shuichi feel better or something, filled his stupid little altrusitic heart — he had thought that, as soon as he was able to walk on his own, as soon as Shuichi woke up from his post-game haze and realized how ugly and _rotten_ Kokichi truly was, he’d finally leave.

But instead, after Kokichi’s official discharge from the hospital, they had ended up moving in together. Like a moth drawn to a flame he hadn’t been able to leave Shuichi’s warmth, his kindness, felt that if he went out alone into the world he would surely disappear into obscurity.

Truly, Kokichi is the one who’s selfish for staying, for trapping Shuichi with his sickness as an excuse, for daring to want something as sweet as Shuichi’s affection after all he’s done.

(And then he wonders, deeper still — at what point will he be able to smile and leave it all behind? At what point will he have paid off his debt? How many days and nights of seething and laying immobile in bed will it take for him to become someone worthy?

 _Maybe the price is eternal,_ he thinks, because he was never supposed to come back after the press, it was never part of the _plan._ And so, in accordance with the karmic laws of the universe, Kokichi Ouma shall not be allowed to live happily without the weight of his wrongdoings littering his skin, seeping into his bones, a continual misery that electrifies his veins in all the worst ways. This is the only way he can be redeemed.

This is his price for being alive.)

* * *

The thing about running is that Kokichi’s gotten quite good at it.

He ran when Miu tried to kill him, used Gonta as his sword and shield, justified his actions with the promise that he’d avenge them.

He ran when Shuichi called him a _coward, you’ll always be alone,_ hid behind masks and a smile that seemed stitched onto his face, hung up on strings like a dancing marionette.

He craves it — the rush of hiding, of _lying,_ of keeping his distance — because running means that he can control when he gets to leave. He’s… _scared_ he realizes, of being left alone again.

The Kokichi Ouma designed to poke and prod at the protagonist before going out in a self-inflicted, glorious explosion of a trial would never admit to something so weak, but that Kokichi _died,_ he reminds himself, and standing in his place is now a ghost. An apparition that desperately clings onto the coattails of Shuichi, to his outstretched hand, all for a little taste of love.

 _I should go,_ he thinks, staring at Shuichi the next day, who’s reading a book in bed. Kokichi’s just finished showering, his skin pink from the overexposure to hot water, where he scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed away in a vain attempt to make himself clean.

 _I should go,_ he thinks again, as Shuichi notices his torpid figure by the doorway and pats the empty spot in their bed as an invitation. The low shade of the lamp casts funny shadows onto walls. “Come here,” he murmurs, momentarily putting down his book. “Please? You’re going to catch a cold like that.”

And—

Kokichi is _weak,_ has always been for Shuichi, he can’t help but melt into that voice and follow.

_So he stays._

He stays, knowing that he shouldn’t, that this shouldn’t be _possible,_ he doesn’t _deserve_ it, but sitting by Shuichi’s side, tucked into their little pocket of the universe, is the only way he feels safe these days.

Shuichi’s propped up against a few pillows, so Kokichi worms his way to his side, resting his head on his shoulders. His eyes sweep over the book in Shuichi’s hands — yet another mystery novel, it seems, the text horribly drab and dense.

“Are you feeling better today? Still in pain?” Shuichi asks absentmindedly, thumbing the next page.

“Mmm. My legs hurt, Saihara-chan.”

“D-do you want me to go get some heat packs?”

“Nah. But you’re going to have to carry me to the bathroom later! It’ll be so _gross._ ”

“It won’t, just tell me if you need to go.”

“What if I need to go in the middle of the night? Ooh, then I’ll be _extra_ annoying when I wake you up!”

“That’s fine. Just— ah, please don’t shake me too much…”

 _“Shuichi,”_ Kokichi grits out. And he feels something _flare_ within him, because Shuichi doesn’t _get it,_ he’s supposed to hate him — and Kokichi hates him too, hates him and _loves_ him, it’s like they’re spinning aimlessly in this never-ending cycle of hurting and helping and hurting each other. “I’m going to run away.”

At that, Shuichi’s breath stutters; _finally_ , Kokichi feels that he’s drawn blood, that he can see the cracks in his demeanor. He’s _breaking_ him, he’s holding on too tight, because Kokichi’s hands have never known how to love properly, and all he can do is dig his fingers in deeper.

“Oh,” Shuichi breathes out, as if the air’s been knocked out of him. “Will— will you be coming back?”

 _I don’t know,_ he wants to say, or better yet, _no, never, you deserve so much better than me._

“If I leave… will you finally be happy, Saihara-chan?” he asks instead.

 _And he’s like a dandelion_ — white hair, white tufts, a thousand unsaid things carried away by the wind. Like a weed the world has tried to step on his throat, to pluck him out of the concrete, but through the earth he rises. Against his will he finds himself crawling back up again, as a newer Kokichi, with a soft voice and marred hands, rooting himself into the cracks of Shuichi’s delicate heart like a parasite. An infestation, _he should leave,_ he’s only poison and surely, _this happiness cannot last—_

The wind stills. His pappi scatter anyways, fingers plucking them out one by one and throwing them away. _Loves me, loves me not. Hates me, hates me not._

He blinks, waiting for Shuichi’s answer.

_Save me…?_

Slowly, Shuichi turns so that they’re staring at each other, bringing a hand to Kokichi’s cheek and brushing against skin with a gentle sweep from his thumb.

 _Soft,_ Kokichi thinks dumbly. Stares, unmoving, as Shuichi gives him a chaste kiss as well. Melts against the warmth of his tender gaze, feels a horrible pang of _guilt_ at the tears pooling in Shuichi’s eyes.

 _“Never,”_ he whispers, voice crackling with something raw and horrible, eyes closed shut as he puts his forehead against Kokichi’s. “Please don’t leave, Kokichi. You— of course I wouldn’t be happy, I— _You’re my happiness._ I love you.”

Shuichi takes in a shuddering breath, and Kokichi finds himself faltering at that admission.

Because he’s said it before — he whispers those three words to him during late mornings and early nights, whispers it when he’s in too much pain to say it back, says it like a gentle reminder that’s repeated as often as he breathes — but Kokichi doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of hearing it. Of _knowing_ that despite everything he’s done and everyone he’s hurt, the world has given him this one mercy.

“Not again…” Shuichi says, quieter. “I’d hate to lose you again. So _please…_ don’t go.”

 _…Ah,_ Kokichi thinks vaguely, staring at Shuichi with wide eyes.

And there, in that small moment of silence, Kokichi realizes:

_Saihara-chan’s also a bit of a broken soul, isn’t he?_

So it’d be selfish of Kokichi to leave, then — because who else in the world knows how to coerce Shuichi to bed before he overworks himself and collapses? Who else knows exactly how he likes his coffee, or how to comfort him after a nightmare, offering his heartbeat as a metronome so that Shuichi can sleep peacefully? Who else has seen the way he looks when he’s laughing at Kokichi’s stupid joke, or crying deep into the night about how he wasn’t able to save his friends, how he never got to suffer the way the rest of them did?

Nobody but Kokichi.

(Like a dandelion, he breathes, and there he blooms, a sunny, yellow, flower—)

If Shuichi wants him to stay, then perhaps he doesn’t need to wait for his redemption — maybe, just _maybe,_ he’s already gotten it. It’s here in the space between them, the way they hold and _understand_ each other in a way nobody else can, in the way they’ve made a home in each other’s arms.

And it’s not perfect, but—

It’s nice. It’s comforting. It’s home.

_(It’s his,_

_it’s his,_

_it’s_ his,

_and he’ll hold onto it for as long as he can.)_

Kokichi looks up to Shuichi and leans in for another kiss, hoping to convey all the words he has yet to say, desperate and raw and _fragile_ as he wraps his arms around his neck. Shuichi melts into it, tears finally spilling over as he half-smiles against him, kissing back with just as much fervor.

 _“I’m sorry—”_ Kokichi chokes out as he pulls back, breathless as he stares at Shuichi’s lips, trying to memorize the taste and feeling. _I’m sorry for trying to leave, I’m sorry for hurting you, I’m sorry that I’m sick and you have to take care of me, I’m sorry that sometimes I still get mad at you even though I shouldn’t—_

“You’re okay, we’re okay,” Shuichi gently whispers, brushing a few strands of hair out of Kokichi’s face. “We’ll figure it out, yeah? If— if you feel like you need to get away, just tell me. We can work on it together.” Shuichi pauses as he seems to realize something. “Th-that is, if you w-want to stay… I, uh, won’t force you if you don’t want to—”

“You idiot, I just kissed the hell out of you,” Kokichi says bluntly. “Of course I want to stay. Dumbass.”

 _And besides…_ he thinks to himself, looking slightly away, _where else in this world can I go, if not into your arms?_

“Oh,” Shuichi says stupidly. “That’s— uh, that’s good.”

Kokichi rolls his eyes, and he feels something in his chest loosen, falling backwards as he pulls Shuichi down next to him.

“I’m tired,” he says brightly, moving his body so that he’s facing Shuichi, careful to keep some distance between them so he doesn’t feel suffocated. “I’m going to sleep.”

Shuichi smiles down at him, a bit hesitant. “Alright.” A pause, as if he’s carefully considering his next words. “And you’re really not going to run away tonight?”

He bites his lips, looking up at Shuichi’s steady gaze. To his surprise, the doubt doesn’t hurt as much as he thought it would; in response, Kokichi leans in closer, a small smile on his face. _Ever the inquisitive detective, Saihara-chan. You should never let your guard down around a liar like me..._

“Yeah...” Kokichi breathes out instead, his answer painfully honest. “Yeah, I think I wanna stay right here, Saihara-chan. And that’s the truth.”

And finally, _finally,_ Shuichi seems to relax at that, letting out a heavy sigh as he wipes the last of his tears away. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” Shuichi whispers, leaning in to quickly kiss his forehead. “Goodnight, Ouma-kun.”

“Goodnight, my beloved.”

And he closes his eyes, feeling the warmth of Shuichi right by him, their blankets pulled over like a protective layer against them and the world, and thinks that maybe, if he allows himself to stay rooted just this once _—_

Maybe, this simple happiness can stay.

**Author's Note:**

> Living with a chronic illness is never easy, and while i dont think i went too deeply into it, I wanted to use this fic to explore the... more unsavory sides of chronic illness?:? Or more specifically, just... how much work it can be? kfasjdf;lasd and illness isn't romantic, it never is, but I just think there's something special when, despite all that work and effort that goes into caring for someone who's sick, someone will still choose to love you every day... yeah,,,,,,,,, I like to think saiou's like that............ 
> 
> jdslkfasdjf but yeah, either way, thank you so much for reading guys;;; i really appreciate it! I hope everyone's doing fantastic and great and ofc, happy saiou day everyoneeee!! 
> 
> You can also find me at:  
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/ixcarus_)  
> [tumblr](https://iixcarus.tumblr.com/)


End file.
